


True Colors

by bonebo



Series: Genesis [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Humanformers, Star is a stripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His colors—his colors are the yellow of fading bruises, the red of a busted lip, the white shine to tears unshed; his colors are the pink marks of hands that linger around his throat, greys like stormclouds that never pass, and melancholy blues. </p><p>And amid it all, an overseer of burning amber, waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Colors

_“Show me your true colors.”_

His colors—his colors are the yellow of fading bruises, the red of a busted lip, the white shine to tears unshed; his colors are the pink marks of hands that linger around his throat, greys like stormclouds that never pass, and melancholy blues. 

The green of dollar bills thrown at his feet, the gold of shimmer spray he's spritzed with before he goes out on stage. 

_”Star,”_ they all call, these men reduced to faceless shadows, to hands that reach and grab and claw; the lights are nearly unbearably bright as they shine up at him, sweat is beading along his bare chest, and he's afraid. _”Star, Star,”_ they chant, and nausea surges up in tandem with the terror, and blood pounds in his ears to the beat of the music that plays too-loudly overhead.

Smiling, he begins his show.

___

 

And finally, he's done.

He grabs his shorts off the floor of the stage—he'd almost thrown them too far this time, but the latex was slippery in his sweat-slicked hands—and tries not to rush behind stage as the crowd behind him screams. The showgirls are the first upon him as he ducks behind the curtain, hands petting at his sweaty hair and rubbing along his flushed shoulders as they coo, and he closes his eyes and endures the affection because he is too shaken and too tired to do anything else.

The girls know this, and he knows that they take advantage of it.

But as it stands he doesn't have the energy to shoo them away, and instead simply walks through them toward the dressing room. His legs are quivering by the time he enters it—the dim space is lit only by dirty bulb lights that line the wall-hung mirrors, and the tables set against the walls are littered with everything from hairspray cans to razors trimmed with white powder, and he has to knock aside an empty box of laxatives before he can sink into one of the many velvet-covered chairs.

The room is too dim for him to catch his reflection in the mirror, and for that he is absurdly grateful.

He's also grateful for the silence of the empty room, the darkness as he closes his eyes; he leans his head back and doesn't bother to move when he hears the door open, hears the footsteps approaching him. It's surely another girl, he assumes, some ugly broad come to ghost fingers over his bare chest and whisper at him how pretty he is—

“Tired, Star?” 

...Oh.

The voice is low and familiar, and he sighs quietly—more to himself, really, but it still earns him a massive hand tightening in his hair. The grip is not quite painful, not yet, but he's been at the mercy of those hands enough times that he knows the pain can come in a heartbeat, and it can come with a vengeance. 

“...yes,” he answers, opening his eyes at last, peering up at the inverted image of Michael looming over him; heavy shadows play over Michael's face, hiding his expression, but Star already knows that he's unsatisfied. His eyes seem to glow in the dimness. “I just did a show, Michael. Of course I am exhausted.”

His tone is snarky, he knows, so he doesn't bother to wince as the hand in his hair wrenches slightly— he knew it was coming. Michael leans in closer, and Star meets his gaze, holding it even as Michael's hand meets his cheek in a contact too sharp to be a pat, yet not quite strong enough to be labeled a slap. 

“Don't be a bitch,” he says softly, and Star can hear the unspoken threat his voice carries, and he decides that—for now—he'll heed it. He's far too tired for a beating. “I came back here to show you some appreciation. I'd hate to have to rethink my kindness.”

Star fights the urge to roll his eyes, and pulls his head back up as Michael releases his hair and walks around to his front. For a moment the two simply stare at each other—dull blue and intense amber, and Star's gaze drops first, watching as Michael nudges at his knee with a foot.

“Spread.” 

Sighing again, he obeys, parting his legs; Michael leans over him, bracing his weight on the chair's armrests, and before Star can even blink there are lips upon his own, stealing his breath away. The kiss is rough and hungry—at least on Michael's end, all battling tongue and sharp teeth—and Star stares at the ceiling as he endures it, focusing on the resistance Michael's chest gives his own as he slowly breathes. 

Until a hand is suddenly between his legs, dipping into the front of his skintight underwear.

His first reaction is to jerk—Michael's hands are rough, and his motions are no gentler, squeezing too hard and rubbing too fast and everything is too dry, it's faint pleasure laced through with pain. His hips buck up and he growls into Michael's mouth, trying to deter him because he's _tired_ , dammit, he doesn't _want_ to fool around—

But then again, when has what _he_ wanted mattered?

Never, he realizes again, and certainly not now—not as Michael's hands jerk down his underwear, and sharp pain jolts from his lip as he finally forces away to hiss, “Not now, damn you!” Michael gives him nothing but a stare in reply, as Star pants softly and presses his thighs together, and then amber eyes darken and a toothy grin splits his face and a deep laugh spills from him.

Star shudders, eyes closing, and in that one moment he knows that he has lost.

He doesn't fight as his legs are wrenched apart, as he's jerked up into Michael's arms; what should be a comforting embrace is instead a vice, and he can do little but squirm as the first wave of pain hits him, bury his face in Michael's shoulder and bite at the fabric of his shirt to stifle himself. 

“At least get in the shadows, for God's sake,” he grinds out, as fingers stretch too far too fast, and Michael snarls in his ear, sinks his teeth into the sensitive cartilage until Star whines for mercy.

“What does it matter to you?” As quick as they were there, the fingers are gone, and Star's relief is short-lived as something larger, blunter, nudges impatiently at him. “You're a whore anyway, and everyone in this building knows it.”

Star's reply is the sinking of nails into Michael's back, the tightening of his legs around Michael's waist; he counts down _one two three_ and Michael's in, and Star was trying to prepare himself but it still hurts enough to make him cry out. His voice echoes in the dim room, and he bites back another yelp as a heavy hand slaps down across his ass.

“Shut up.” Hips snap up and the stretch is almost unbearable in its agony, and then Michael shifts and Star slides down to the hilt and he really does believe he's being split in two. He twists his fingers into Michael's shirt and clings, counting down from ten in all the languages he can think of in his head, anything to distract himself from this room, this disgrace, this one moment of blinding, all-encompassing pain.

The whole ordeal doesn't last very long—at least, not by his standards.

He's on Swedish when Michael's movements become jerky, and then Danish when he feels Michael's release. For just a moment—a brief, blessed moment—everything is still, and he's curled into Michael and Michael is just holding him, and they are sealed together and Star can almost imagine—

But then the moment passes, and Michael withdraws, and Star is dropped and crumples to the floor. He lays there and revels in the chill of the floor upon his flushed skin, closes his eyes to avoid looking at Michael's scuffed shoes; then there's footsteps, and Michael's voice is brisk. “Get your shit together. I'm leaving in ten minutes, whether you are in the car or not.”

Star mumbles something that will serve as a reply, for now, flinches as the door shuts. For a while he doesn't move, just lies still and lets the last lingering waves of pain settle into a bone-deep soreness, listens to his racing heart.

He hurts, aches, throbs—and not just physically, not this time. Not like so many other times when the car jerks to a stop and he's all but thrown out onto the street, or when he walks to Michael's house in the rain, or when no amount of pleading and groveling is enough to shield him from yet another blow. 

Star scrapes himself off the floor, gathers his belongings and what remains of his shattered dignity, and hurriedly chases after the only constant—however unstable—he has left.


End file.
